ROSES 
wRAIN 


ANNIE  LAURIE 


ROSES  am/-  RAIN 

h 

ANNIE  •  LAURIE 


ANNIE  LAURIE  SERIES 


Published  by  the  Author 

762-766  Mission  Street 

San  Francisco,  Calif, 


Copyright   1920 
By  W.  B.  Bonfils 


PRINTED   BY 

WALTER   N.  BRUNT 

702-766    MISSION  ST. 

SAN    FRANCISCO.   CAL, 

1920 


0$ 
Bancroft  Library 


The  sketches  in  this  little  book  are  reprinted 
^  by  the  courtesy  and  kindness  of  the  San  Fran- 
^  cisco  Examiner. 

ij  Let's  sit  down  together  and  think  again  of  the 
j  roses  and  rain,  the  sunshine  and  fog,  the  wild 
j«  wind  and  deep  peace,  the  joyous  beauty  and 
G  proud  generosity  that  is — California. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


ROSES  AND  RAIN. 

Last  night  we  sat  in  the  quiet  room — a  few 
friends  together — and  heard  the  wind  rattling 
the  palm  leaves  outside  in  the  garden,  like  some 
ghostly  senorita  clicking  a  pair  of  invisible  caste- 
nets  in  tune  to  some  haunting  rhythm. 

The  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  a  fire  of  eucalyp- 
tus logs,  with  now  and  then  a  branch  of  aromatic 
leaves,  flaming  suddenly  into  leaping  life  and 
filling  the  room  with  their  pungent  and  somehow 
exotic  perfume. 

We  put  out  the  bright  lights  from  the  center 
of  the  room,  and  let  the  shadows  fall  from  the 
little  gleaming  lamps  that  are  like  fire-flies,  flit- 
ting in  the  dusk  like  so  many  swiftly  passing 
thoughts  and  pleasant  memories. 

There  we  were,  the  young  couple  so  dead  in 
love  with  each  other,  and  so  full  of  the  joy  of 
living.  Sweet  Sixteen,  a  little  terrified  at  her 
vague  glimpse  of  life — Twenty-one,  virile  and 
modest  and  somehow  eagerly  hopeful. 

The  Home  Woman,  the  Woman  of  the  World, 
the  Artist,  the  Genius,  the  Singer  and  the  Priest. 
A  strange  company,  strangely  mixed,  and  yet 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


there  we  sat  in  the  quiet  little  room — together, 
like  passengers  on  a  raft  picked  up  from  the  wild 
sea  and  held  together  by  some  strange  accident 
of  fate. 

We  talked,  not  of  politics,  not  of  war  or  of 
diplomacy — not  even  of  the  high  cost  of  living, 
or  of  the  effect  of  the  vote  upon  women. 

We  talked  of  books  and  poetry,  and  of  music, 
and  one  told  a  quaint  little  story  of  a  wounded 
pigeon,  and  the  rescue  of  it,  and  the  fire  burned 
and  the  wind  sang,  and  gradually  the  stress  of 
the  world  and  the  anxiety  and  restless,  uneasy 
ambition  of  it  fell  from  us  like  an  outworn  cloak. 
And  there  we  were,  like  little  children,  talking 
together  in  the  twilight  of  some  great  primeval 
forest. 

And  one  sang — a  simple  song  of  love  and 
memory  and  tears. 

"Roses  and  rairr"  and  the  artist  smiled,  and  the 
Woman  of  the  World  sighed,  and  there  were 
tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  Home  Woman. 

The  Genius  it  was  who  sang — and  the  Singer 
sat  by  the  fire  and  listened. 

The  Young  Wife's  hand  stole  to  the  hand  of 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


her  Husband,  and  the  Priest  sat  like  one  in  a  deep 
reverie.  Was  he  thinking  of  the  roses  that 
bloomed  in  the  dooryard  of  his  home  across  the 
sea,  and  the  fragrance  of  them  in  the  sweet  June 
rain? 

And  we  didn't  care  who  was  elected  or  who 
was  defeated,  and  somewhere,  far  down  in  the 
city  below,  the  boys  were  calling  extras,  extra — 
extra — all  about  something  or  other  very  impor- 
tant, which  concerned  us  not  in  the  very  least. 

And  the  Singer  was  generous,  and  poured  out 
for  us  like  a  libation  on  the  altar  of  friendship  his 
voice  of  molten  silver — French  songs  he  sang 
full  of  the  quick  and  glancing  grace  of  a  fountain 
leaping  in  the  moonlight.  German  lieder,  simple 
and  brooding,  like  the  lullabies  a  mother  sings 
to  her  child.  Italian,  too,  he  sang,  and  the  room 
glowed  with  the  fire  and  the  passion  of  the  melt- 
ing music  of  Italy. 

"Eileen  Allana" — how  he  sang  it — the  simple 
old  ballad,  and  how.  we  drank  every  lilting  note  of 
it,  like  thirsty  travelers  in  a  dry  and  arid  desert. 

And  so  the  quiet  evening  spent  itself,  and  at 
the  end  she  sang  again,  the  woman  with  the 


8  ROSES  AND  RAIN 


strange  dark  eyes — "Roses  and  Rain" — and  we 
were  one  with  the  sunshine  and  the  dew  and 
knew  again  the  sweet  and  rapturous  pang  of 
youth  and  moonlight  and  the  mystery  of  the  stars. 
"Roses  and  Rain" — the  wind  in  the  palm  trees, 
the  fire  on  the  hearth,  dear  faces  in  the  soft  dim- 
ness of  the  quiet  room.  What  is  there  sweeter, 
what  more  beautiful,  what  more  to  be  gained  in 
life  than  these  ? 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


COME  HOME,  CARELESS  LOVE. 

"Come  home,  Careless  Love — oh,  do  come  home ! 
I'll  weep  like  a  willow,  and  I'll  mourn  like  a 

dove. 
Come  home,  Careless  Love — oh,  do  come  home." 

Careless  Love  has  gone — far  and  far  he  flew 
out  of  the  garden,  over  the  wall,  past  the  great 
eucalyptus,  up  and  up,  higher  and  higher,  his 
wings  flashed  in  the  sun,  he  turned  toward  the 
shining  water,  and  like  a  flash  he  was  gone. 

And  in  the  cage  that  stands  on  the  garden  wall 
his  mate  sits  on  the  perch  and  mourns  for  him — 
"Poo-roo,"  she  says,  "Poo-roo,"  and  will  not  be 
comforted — no,  not  by  rice,  or  by  corn,  or  even 
by  wheat,  no  matter  how  daintily  it  is  scattered. 

"Poo-roo — Poo-roo,"  and  what  is  there  on 
earth  that  can  mourn  so  musically  as  a  ring  dove 
mourning  for  her  mate? 

There  were  four  of  them  the  other  day.  We 
brought  them  home  from  the  great,  broad  acres 
in  the  warm  country. 

They  lived  in  a  netted  enclosure,  just  back  of 
the  chicken  yard — the  mourning  doves  and  the 
pouter  pigeons  and  the  fan-tails.  And  how  they 


10  ROSES  AND  RAIN 


did  strut  and  preen  and  turn  their  glossy  necks 
from  side  to  side  to  catch  every  angle  of  the  sun- 
light. They  were  named — the  most  of  them.  It 
was  a  little  cruel  perhaps  to  call  the  pouter  pigeon 
"J.  Hamilton  Lewis" — and  whoever  named  that 
gray  little  dove  "Mrs.  Pankhurst"  ?  We  stood  in 
the  shade  and  watched  them  for  hours,  the  pretty, 
graceful,  gracious  creatures.  And  when  we  went 
away  the  generous  giver  of  a  generous  day 
loaded  us  down  with  presents  and  in  one  package 
was  a  box  and  in  that  box  were  the  four  doves. 
"Dinna  ye  mind  the  cushat  dooes  at  Inverquar- 
ity?"  That  was  the  message  she  sent  to  her  old 
sweetheart,  the  poor  woman  dying  in  cruel  Lon- 
don, far  away  from  her  girlhood's  home. 

"Dinna  ye  mind  the  cushat  dooes  Aaron 
Latta?"  and  Aaron  Latta  minded  and  came  up 
to  London  and  took  the  forlorn  children  the 
dying  woman  left  behind  her  and  gave  them  a 
home,  all  because  of  the  woman  who  had  stood 
with  him  on  a  fairing  day  and  listened  to  the 
mourning  of  the  cushat  doves. 

I  thought  of  her  all  the  way  home,  the  poor 
woman  who  died  in  London,  and  of  the  faithful 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 11 

sweetheart  who  came  to  help  her  when  she 
minded  him  of  the  mourning  doves — pretty 
things,  pretty,  graceful,  gentle  things.  We  made 
them  a  little  house  out  of  a  great  box  and  set 
them  high  upon  the  wall  in  the  scarlet  and  green 
of  the  geraniums. 

And  one  we  named  "Careless  Love"  and  one 
we  named  "Poor  Soul"  and  one  we  called,  oh,  the 
light-mindedness  of  youth  in  these  strange  days 
of  ours — "Oo-Long,"  and  the  other  "So-Long." 

And  we  scattered  grain  and  set  clear,  cool 
water  and  went  into  the  house  and  planned  the 
building  of  an  old  world  dove-cote  high  on  a  tall 
pole,  with  little  doors  and  windows — a  door  for 
"Poor  Soul"  and  one  for  "Careless  Love"  and 
one  for  "Oo-Long"  and  one  for  "So-Long."  And 
then  we  all  went  to  sleep  and  dreamed  of  carrier 
doves  and  sweet  messages  sent  from  far  seas. 
But  in  the  morning  when  we  went  to  feed  the 
little  visitors,  one  of  them  edged  close  to  the  door, 
and,  wh-rrr,  before  you  could  catch  your  breath, 
he  was  gone. 

He  lit  for  a  moment  in  the  weeping  willow 
tree,  stopped  an  instant  to  catch  bearings  and 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


then  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  away  he  went 
across  the  bay,  in  the  exact  direction  of  the  broad 
acres  from  which  he  came. 

I'm  expecting  every  minute  to  hear  from  the 
generpus  giver,  he  who  gathers  forlorn  children 
around  him  and  protects  them  and  makes  them 
happy — I  wonder  if  they  will  recognize  "Careless 
Love,"  the  little  city  boys  out  there  in  the  country 
for  their  vacation,  and  bid  him  welcome,  and  put 
him  back  in  the  enclosure  with  "J.  Hamilton 
Lewis"  and  "Mrs.  Pankhurst"  ? 

And  will  "Careless  Love"  be  a  great  hero, 
returned  from  the  wars,  and  will  he  tell  them 
fine  tales  of  his  wild  adventures,  and  will  he 
mourn  for  "Poor  Soul,"  or  will  he  find  another 
mate  and  forget  all  about  her? 

And  now  what  to  do  about  "Oo-Long"  and 
"So-Long?"  Shall  we  dare  to  build  the  dove-cote 
and  put  them  in  it  ?  Will  they  stay  with  us  if  we 
do,  or  will  they  rise  high  in  the  air  and  strike  a 
straight  course  over  to  "Careless  Love"  and  the 
pouter  pigeon  and  the  fan-tails? 

We  would  take  such  good  care  of  them,  if  only 
they  would  stay  with  us.  They  should  have  the 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  13 

whole  world  to  fly  in  by  day,  if  only  they  would 
come  back  at  night,  and  in  the  morning,  and  at 
twilight,  mourn  just  a  little  for  us  over  the  sor- 
rows of  the  world  and  ease  by  their  music  the 
aching  of  some  lonely  heart. 

Must  we  shut  them  in  some  hateful  enclosure 
— just  to  protect  them  from  the  wild  beasts  and 
the  dangers  of  their  little  world,  or — 

Now,  I  know  the  meaning  of  the  expression  in 
the  eyes  of  the  little  mother  who  cannot  make  up 
her  mind  whether  to  keep  her  daughter  "safe" 
and  caged  at  home  or  let  her  seek  freedom — and 
peril — abroad. 

"Come  home,  Careless  Love — oh,  do  come 
home."  "Poor  Soul"  is  watching  for  you. 


14 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

UP  THE  SAN  JOAQUIN. 

The  Harvest  Moon — how  big  and  round  and 
red  it  is  when  it  first  rises — and  how  it  floods  the 
dull,  old,  everyday  world  with  silver  when  it  is 
high  in  the  sky! 

Where  have  you  seen  it  this  time  ? 

Out  at  the  Beach — with  the  great  waves  roll- 
ing in  and  rolling  in — looking  like  rows  and  rows 
of  prancing  horses  tossing  their  white  manes  for 
the  very  joy  of  living?  In  the  Park,  with  the  tall 
eucalyptus  throwing  their  ragged  shadows  on 
the  ground  like  beggars  playing  dice  against  time 
and  laughing  in  the  wind  to  lose  their  stakes? 
Out  at  Land's  End,  with  the  light  darting  across 
from  the  Light  House  as  an  inspiration  flashes 
upon  the  brain  and  the  dark  hills  of  Marin  shoul- 
dering up  as  if  some  jealous  giant  had  built  him 
a  fortress  to  shut  out  even  the  envious  glances  of 
a  wistful  world? 

I  saw  my  Harvest  Moon  up  the  San  Joaquin — 
what  a  country !  Have  you  been  there  of  late  ? 

I  hadn't — and  I  thought  of  it  as  a  kind  of  low, 
level  stretch  of  flat  country,  with  nothing  much  to 
relieve  the  monotony  save  the  silver  river  creep- 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


ing  in  and  out  among  the  shadows.     But,  dear 
me,  they've  been  doing  things  in  the  San  Joaquin 

—  big  things,  I  suppose  —  but  what  I  noticed  most 
were  the  fields  and  fields  and  fields  of  ripening 
melons  —  millions  of  them,  striped  and  russet  and 
fragrant.     Why,  you  could  feed  an  army  on 
melons  and  never  even  touch  the  San  Joaquin 
crop.      And   the   figs  —  orchards    of    the    great, 
broad,  generous  trees  that  always  make  me  think 
of  an  old-fashioned  grandmother  with  plenty  of 
room  in  her  capacious  lap  for  all  the  grandchil- 
dren and  a  few  of  the  neighbors'  children  too. 
How  beneficient  and  kindly  they  are  —  the  fig 
trees  laden  to  the  ground  with  their  rich  harvest. 
Olives,  too,  and  late  peaches.    The  air  is  heavy 
with  the  richness   and  the  sweetness   and   the 
promise  of  the  ripe  fruit.     Talk  about  the  Gar- 
den of  Eden  —  if  Adam  had  ever  seen  California 
in  September  or  early  October  he  wouldn't  have 
cared  a  cent  about  that  flaming  sword  —  not  if 
he  could  have  found  an  airship  to  get  down  here 

—  not  he. 

And  as  for  Eve  —  what  a  country  for  a  woman 
it  is  —  Cailfornia.     Not  too  clear,  the  beckoning 


16 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

distances;  not  too  sharp  the  outlines — curved, 
gracious,  gentle,  smiling — so  are  the  quiet  hills 
dressed  in  their  autumn  yellow. 

And,  oh,  the  fields  of  the  San  Joaquin !  What- 
ever is  that  little,  waving,  yellow  blossom  there — 
that  holds  up  its  gay  head  so  late  in  the  year,  as 
if  it  were  the  Spring  and  all  the  birds  were  mat- 
ing? The  fields  themselves  are  primrose  colored 
— so  delicate  they  are.  But  the  miles  and  miles 
of  waving  flowers  are  almost  orange — and 
there's  a  rich  perfume  about  them  like  mandrakes 
ripening  in  the  sun.  What  can  they  be? 

And  then  the  miles  of  vivid  blue — who  are 
they? — the  wistful  strangers  who  have  taken 
possession  of  the  rich  lands  near  the  river,  now 
that  the  crops  are  over — blue  and  blue — the  deep, 
clear  blue  of  sapphires.  They  have  a  poignant, 
heavy  flavor  in  their  haunting  perfume — some- 
thing that  is  like  the  bouquet  of  a  fine,  old  white 
wine.  And  what  is  that  pungent,  aromatic  scent 
that  haunts  the  air  like  a  spirit  ?  Why,  it's  mint 
— wild  mint  all  along  the  river  bank,  growing 
under  the  willows  and  the  quaking  aspens. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


17 


Look!  There's  a  storm  breaking  somewhere. 
See  how  the  sun  draws  water,  and  how  red  the 
angry  clouds  rise  upon  the  horizon !  What's  that 
in  the  distance?  Snow,  and  plenty  of  it — on  the 
peaks — you  can  feel  the  tang  of  it  in  the  air. 

Look!  There  she  rises — the  Harvest  Moon — 
serene,  generous — a  queen  among  moons,  smil- 
ing, well-content. 

Come,  come — not  so  matronly,  Madame  Moon, 
if  you  please.  We  know  you  love  the  perfume  of 
the  harvest  fields,  and  we  rejoice  with  you  at  the 
abundance  of  the  garnered  vintages. 

But  we  look  to  you  for  romance,  for  fancy — 
for  a  magic  veil  of  silver  to  soften  the  rough 
edges  of  a  too  practical  world. 

Ah !  it  smiles  again,  the  argent  mystery  of  the 
moonlight — and  all  the  rustling  night  is  silver 
and  amethyst — and  far  and  far  a  dog  barks,  and 
some  sheep  fold  stirs,  and  even  the  cattle  feel  the 
spell  of  it,  and  move  restlessly  in  their  accus- 
tomed places. 

What  the  river,  the  Stanislaus — the  fork  of  it 
for  the  mountain  climb  ?  What  is  it  he  said — 
the  poet — of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water 


18  ROSES  AND  RAIN 

and  swam  the  North  Fork  and  all,  just  to  dance 
with  old  Follansby's  daughter,  the  "Lily  of  Pov- 
erty Flat"?  Ah,  well,  no  wonder  he  swam  the 
North  Fork — who  wouldn't  want  to  dance  in 
such  a  country  under  such  a  moon  as  this? 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


19 


THE  DANCING  FIRE. 

The  other  evening  it  was  chilly.  A  great 
cloud  rolled  up  from  the  west  and  there  was  rain, 
and  right  in  the  midst  of  summer  sturdy  autumn 
thrust  his  head  in  at  the  window  and  laughed  to 
see  us  shiver. 

And  I  sent  the  children  out  for  some  wood  and 
we  built  a  fire  in  the  fireplace  and  made  a  great 
pitcher  of  chocolate  and  had  some  thin  bread  and 
butter  and  little  cakes,  and  we  sat  by  the  fire  and 
laughed  and  sang  and  told  stories.  Old  stories, 
about  witches  and  ghosts  and  goblins  and  where 
the  wood  came  from  that  we  burned. 

Pine,  from  great  forests  in  the  high  Sierras, 
where  the  snow  falls  and  the  wind  howls  all  win- 
ter, tamaracks  from  the  swamps  near  the  sea, 
and  redwood  from  the  great  groves  that  are  like 
cathedrals. 

Applewood  from  the  old  trees  in  some  half- 
forgotten  orchard.  Who  planted  it,  I  wonder — 
the  bride  or  the  groom?  The  orchard  grew  close 
to  the  door  on  the  old  place,  there  in  the  hills.  A 
branch  of  willow — did  this  come  from  "Haunted 
Pond/'  where  the  old-fashioned  water  lilies  grow 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


and  where  it  is  so  still  and  mysterious  at  twi- 
light? 

Eucalyptus — ah,  there's  California  for  you — 
Oregon,  Georgia,  Maine — what  a  storehouse  of 
memories  an  old  wood  box  can  sometimes  be! 

Of  mermaids  we  talked,  and  sprites  and  pixies, 
and  gnomes  and  the  little  folk  of  Ireland,  and 
brownies  and  the  tree  people,  who  live  in  the 
trunks  of  trees,  and  elves  and  fairies,  and  wish- 
ing rings  and  traveling  carpets,  and  invisible 
cloaks — don't  you  know  the  kind  you  put  on 
when  you  want  to  walk  abroad  and  not  let  any 
one  see  you? — and  wishbones  and  magic  wells. 
Oh,  we  had  a  lovely  time,  sitting  in  the  twilight 
by  the  light  of  a  dancing  fire ! 

And  suddenly  one  of  our  number  laughed 
aloud,  and  then  she  caught  her  breath  and  sighed. 

"Look!"  she  said.  "Out  of  the  window !"  We 
looked,  and  there,  reflected  on  the  clear  pane,  was 
the  dancing  fire,  brighter,  wilder,  more  leaping 
than  the  one  on  the  hearth. 

"When  fire  outside  burns  merrily,  there  the 
witches  are  making  tea,"  she  quoted. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


And  we  laughed  and  looked  and  wondered. 

It  was  so  real  with  its  dancing  flames  —  so  full 
of  life  and  vitality,  it  didn't  seem  possible  that  it 
was  nothing  but  a  reflection.  Was  that  some  one 
standing  beside  it,  smiling  through  the  window 
at  us,  with,  oh,  that  unf  orgotten  smile  ? 

Proud  head,  rosy  cheeks,  clear  eyes,  and,  oh, 
the  honest,  boyish  love  in  them.  Did  they  see  it, 
the  others  who  looked  with  me  ? 

No,  no;  that  vision  was  for  me  alone. 

For  an  instant  it  paused,  turned,  smiled,  and 
with  love  and  yearning  tenderness  in  every  ges- 
ture looked  back  and  was  gone. 

How  he  used  to  love  to  see  the  fire  burning  out- 
side in  the  cool  night  —  he  loved  the  fire  on  the 
hearth,  too,  but  he  would  leave  it  any  time  to 
stand  and  watch  the  gay  reflection  that  was  like 
some  vagrant  spirit,  leaping,  calling,  beckoning 
him  —  whither  ? 

And  now  he  is  gone  and  does  not  sit  with  us 
by  the  fire  and  cannot  tell  the  quaint  stories  that 
he  loved.  But,  perhaps  —  is  it  possible,  I  wonder 
—  that  when  the  fire  leaps  upon  the  hearth  of  his 
old  home,  he  is  permitted  for  an  instant  to  come 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


and  stand  by  the  phantom  flames  that  intrigued 
his  imagination  so  deeply,  and  smile  and  look  in 
upon  us  for  just  an  instant? 

How  can  we  know  ?  How  shall  we  ever  know  ? 
Fragrant  pine,  clear  flames  of  redwood,  strange 
incense  of  the  eucalyptus — ah,  call  him  back 
again  just  for  one  sweet  moment ! 

So  you  wait  outside  the  door,  do  you,  bluff  Sir 
Autumn,  with  your  followers  in  red  and  gold,  the 
heaped  vintage  of  your  harvest  purple  and  yellow 
and  crimson — you  bring  chill  and  frost  and 
brown  quiet  for  all  the  growing  things.  But,  oh, 
you  bring,  too,  the  dancing  fire ! 

And  so,  with  warm  hearts,  we  will  welcome 
you  when  it  is  your  time  to  come. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  23 

PASSIN*  THROUGH. 

He's  out  in  the  garden — this  very  minute — the 
Mysterious  Stranger. 

Night  before  last  I  heard  him  just  at  sunset 
calling  from  the  top  of  the  tallest  eucalyptus  tree 
in  the  neighborhood. 

"Happy  days,"  he  cried,  "happy,  happy,  happy 
d-a-y-s !" 

I  went  out  on  the  porch  with  the  opera  glass 
and  tried  my  best  to  see  him — did  he  notice  me, 
and  was  he  laughing  to  think  of  a  being  so  dull 
of  the  senses  that  such  a  thing  as  an  opera  glass 
was  necessary  anywhere,  any  time? 

He  sounded  as  if  he  did,  for  there  was  a  dis- 
tinct chuckle  at  the  end  of  the  next  "happy,"  and 
something  like  a  friendly  giggle  in  the  "days." 

I  watched  and  watched,  and  the  eucalyptus 
tree  turned  from  electric  blue  to  dull  green  in  the 
changing  light  of  the  sunset  hour  and  then  to 
deep  and  melancholy  purple,  and  then  almost  to 
black  with  a  fringe  of  silver  along  the  edges,  and 
the  Mysterious  Stranger  laughed  and  called  and 
sang  and  hurrahed  and  cheered  and  sighed  and 
almost  sobbed — and  then  was  silent. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


But  never  once  could  I  catch  the  faintest 
glimpse  of  him. 

The  other  birds  seemed  to  stop  singing  and 
listen  to  him  —  I  wonder  if  he  was  "Mysterious 
Stranger"  to  them  or  some  old  friend  or  ancient 
enemy  paying  them  a  flying  visit  for  old  times' 
sake? 

Yesterday  morning  he  was  there  again  —  high 
and  high  in  the  eucalyptus,  calling,  calling  before 
the  morning  mist  was  fairly  cleared  away. 

"Happy,  happy  days,"  he  cried  gayly,  "happy 
d-a-y-s  !" 

"Come,"  said  I  to  the  Brown  Girl  whose  black 
eyes,  soft  and  brilliant  and  clear  as  a  brown  pool 
in  the  deep  forest,  can  see  farther  than  any  pair 
of  human  eyes  I  ever  knew. 

Light-footed,  swift  and  silent  as  was  her 
grandmother,  the  Cherokee  —  the  Brown  Girl 
came  and  stood  in  the  porch  and  watched  and 
watched. 

But  even  she  could  not  catch  sight  of  him  — 
though  he  called  louder  than  ever  and  again 
appeared  to  be  laughing  at  some  huge  joke  all 
his  own. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 25 

The  Brown  Girl  leaned  against  the  rail  of  the 
porch  and  her  many  beads  chimed  together  like 
the  voice  of  quick  waters  running  over  the  stones. 

"Passin'  through,"  said  the  Brown  Girl,  half 
to  herself  and  half  to  me.  "Just  passin'  through 
—that's  all." 

And  so  we've  named  him  now,  the  Mysterious 
Stranger,  Passin'  Through — but  we  do  not  know 
who  he  is  or  where  he  came  from  or  whither  he 
is  bound;  we  don't  even  know  how  he  looks  or 
what  his  real  name  is  in  the  bird  book — all  we 
know  is  that  from  some  aerial  height  he  spied  our 
little  garden  and  chose  to  rest  here  for  a  while — 
on  his  way. 

How  does  he  know  where  he  is  going,  anyway ; 
who  drew  the  map  of  his  course  for  him,  who 
told  him  to  turn  here  and  vary  there  and  rise  at 
such  a  time  and  descend  at  another? 

Does  the  whole  country  lie  beneath  him  like  a 
map  and  does  he  spy  out  rivers  and  towns  and 
mountains — can  he  hear  the  calling  of  the  wild 
sea  up  there  and  steer  his  course  by  it  ? 

What  a  miracle  it  is,  the  migration  of  the  birds 
— and  yet  we  are  so  used  to  it  we  never  even 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


notice  it  to  comment  on  its  wonder  and  on  its 
mystery. 

The  other  day  out  on  the  edge  of  the  little 
fountain  there  perched  all  at  once  a  wee  brown 
bird  —  a  cozy,  comfortable,  motherly,  friendly, 
soft  creature  —  and  when  she  began  to  sing  we 
knew  her  name,  for  she  said  it  over  and  over  as 
if  she  were  trying  to  introduce  herself. 

"Phoebe,  Phoebe/'  said  the  little  brown  bird  — 
and  the  children  next  door  laughed  aloud  and 
called  to  each  other  "Phoebe's  here  for  a  day 


or  so." 


And  those  same  children  and  any  one  of  the 
rest  of  us  would  spend  a  precious  hour  almost 
any  time  standing  among  the  dupes  to  watch 
some  trickster  perform  some  "mystery,"  and 
think  ourselves  wise  and  deep — to  wonder  and 
speculate  and  try  to  guess  how  the  magic  was 
wrought. 

Yet  all  around  us  every  day  are  the  great  mir- 
acles of  life,  and  of  death,  and  of  love,  and  of 
faith,  and  of  loyalty  that  no  time  and  no  space 
and  no  absence  can  ever  change. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


Happy,  Happy  days  —  good  luck  to  you 
Passin'  Through,  whoever  you  are  and  wher- 
ever you  came  from  and  wherever  you  are  going. 

Perhaps  your  brother  or  your  cousin  or  even 
the  wife  that  is  to  be  of  your  winged  bosom,  sings 
your  gay  song  of  challenge  and  of  cheer  over 
some  low  grave  in  Flanders  this  very  day. 

And  maybe  some  American,  homesick  and 
lonely  for  his  native  sights  and  sounds,  will  hear 
the  song  from  his  hospital  cot,  or  from  his  tent 
in  camp,  and  smile  and  think  cheerfully  of  home 
and  those  who  love  him  here. 


28  ROSES  AND  RAIN 


OH!   PROMISE  ME. 

I  knew  a  little  tree  once,  a  cypress  it  was. 

Slender  and  dark  and  straight,  like  an  Indian 
youth,  and  it  grew  in  a  little  sunny  garden  here 
in  San  Francisco. 

He  planted  it,  the  little  boy  who  was  the  beat 
of  our  hearts.  And  because  we  got  it  down  the 
coast,  in  the  place  of  the  mysterious  trees,  he 
called  it  "Monterey." 

He  planted  it  on  his  birthday,  and  every  morn- 
ing he  watered  it,  and  every  Saturday  he  meas- 
ured its  growth  with  his  hand  and  was  a  little 
wistful  when  he  found  that  the  tree  grew  faster 
than  he. 

But  the  house  with  the  sunny  garden  was  old 
and  a  new  one  was  built  and  those  who  moved 
into  the  new  house  took  "Monterey"  with  them. 
Something  happened  in  the  moving,  and  although 
the  tree  was  carefully  replanted  it  did  not  thrive. 

The  dark  foliage  faded  and  the  tree  began  to 
droop. 

The  little  boy  could'  not  bear  to  see  this  and 
every  night  after  he  had  watered  the  trees  and 
his  bedtime  came  he  slipped  to  his  knees  and 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  29 


prayed  for  "Monterey"  to  live  and  keep  on  grow- 
ing with  him.  For,  after  all,  he  was  a  very  little 
boy  and  he  loved  the  tree  very  dearly. 

But  one  day  the  gardener  said :  "Why  not  dig 
up  this  old  tree — it  is  dead?" 

And  so  it  was.  There  was  no  longer  any  use 
of  denying  it.  But  the  little  boy  grieved  and 
begged  them  to  give  "Monterey"  a  chance.  And 
the  wind  blew  chill  out  of  the  fog,  and  the  little 
boy  drooped  and  smiled  and  said  "Good-bye"  and 
when  he  was  gone  the  new  house  was  empty. 

Strangers  who  came  to  live  there  dug  up 
"Monterey"  and  threw  the  dead  trunk  and  life- 
less branches  on  a  bonfire. 

But  those  whose  hearts  ached  with  loneliness 
went  down  the  coast  to  the  country  of  mysterious 
trees  and  found  a  brother  to  "Monterey"  and 
planted  it  at  the  head  of  a  little  grave. 

This  tree  did  not  die — it  grows  and  grows,  tall 
and  slender,  and  dark,  like  an  Indian  youth. 

The  white  rose  that  blossoms  on  the  cross  that 
marks  the  resting  place  of  the  dear,  dear  little  boy 
is  sweet  and  fair,  and  the  violets  which  bloom 


30 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

there  in  the  season  are  fragrant  and  lovely  to  see, 
but  the  dark  tree  is  the  best  beloved  of  all. 

It  grows  and  grows  and  seems,  somehow,  to 
remember. 

What  tree  do  you  remember,  in  all  your  life, 
the  best? 

There  were  two  great  maples  in  the  yard  when 
I  was  a  little  girl.  They  were  landmarks  for  all 
the  countryside,  but  to  me  they  were  just  the 
place  where  my  brother  hung  my  swing. 

There  are  two  great  cottonwoods  that  whisper, 
night  and  day,  in  a  certain  place  I  know,  far  from 
here.  And  up  in  the  high  Sierras  there  is  a  tall 
sugar  pine. 

Oh,  I  would  know  it  in  a  grove  of  a  thousand 
brothers.  I  could  find  it,  although  I  walked 
blindfolded  in  the  snow  to  do  it.  And  in  my  land- 
scape today  there  is  old  "King  Lear,"  the  euca- 
lyptus, that  has  stormed  it  through  the  years,  and 
lives  and  triumphs  still — what  tree  do  you  think 
of  when  your  heart  is  light  or  when  your  heart  is 
sad? 

The  heart  of  a  man,  the  soul  of  a  woman,  the 
love  of  a  little  child. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 31 

The  perfume  of  a  dear  and  intimate  garden, 
rising  in  the  moonlight. 

The  sound  of  clear  water  rushing  over  the 
rocks. 

The  whispering  of  the  wind  in  the  leaves,  and 
the  silent  companionship  of  noble  trees. 

If  you  have  known  these  things,  you  have 
known  the  best  of  life. 

What  an  inspiration  it  was — this  idea  of  the 
Heroes'  Grove  we  put  into  living  execution  here 
in  San  Francisco  today. 

Monuments — the  world  is  full  of  them — the 
Tag  Mahal,  the  Tomb  of  Napoleon;  and  in  an- 
other sense,  that  strange  and  touching  shaft 
erected  to  the  woman  of  genius  whose  stormy 
heart  knew  deep  sorrow — just  a  plain  shaft  with 
a  finger  pointing  upwards,  and  the  inscription 
"Thou  Knowest" 

The  stone  Will  Davis  set  up  to  his  wife,  Jessie 
Bartlett  Davis,  who  sang  in  "Robin  Hood." 
Nothing  inscribed  there  but  the  beginning  of  the 
song  she  melted  into  our  very  hearts  in  her 
day: 

"Oh,  promise  me  that  some  day  you  and  I" — 


32 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

A  thousand  ideas  expressed  in  a  thousand 
ways,  yearning,  loving,  remembering — but  what 
can  tell  it  all,  the  pride,  the  grief,  the  memory — 
like  a  noble  tree  ? 

The  Grove  of  the  Hero — what  a  glorious  privi- 
lege to  be  one  of  those  who  sees  the  beginning  of 
it  today,  here  in  our  beloved  city  of  Smiles  and 
Tears — and  Memories. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 33 

ROMANCE. 

"Oh,  "said  the  little  mermaid,  and  she  rose  out 
of  the  deep,  blue  sea,  and  rocked  in  the  cradle  of 
the  waves,  and  sang  for  joy." 

"  'Pieces  of  eight — pieces  of  eight !'  screamed 
the  parrot." 

"And  there  on  the  ground  behind  the  rocks 
they  lay — Davy  Balfour  and  Allen  Breck,  and 
all  the  world  was  red  with  the  scarlet  coats  of 
British  soldiers." 

"Lorna  Doone's  eyes  were  like  stars  and  her 
hair  was  black  satin,  and  great  John  Ridd's  heart 
turned  to  water  when  he  looked  at  her." 

Every  week  in  the  year  is  Children's  Book 
Week  with  me. 

How  do  people  live — who  don't  love  to  read? 
I  wonder,  don't  you  ? 

What  a  little,  narrow,  hopeless  kind  of  world 
it  must  be  when  you  have  to  live  all  the  time  with 
just  the  everyday  people  you  meet,  going  down 
Market  street  or  up  Powell — or  the  same  kind 
you  are  yourself,  with  your  same  kind  of  preju- 
dices and  your  same  kind  of  limitations  and  your 


34  ROSES  AND  RAIN 


same  kind  of  hopes  and  fears  and  funny  little 
ambitions. 

Every  once  in  a  while,  when  I  am  so  tired  of 
thinking  just  exactly  what  I  ought  to  think  that 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  turning  into  a  beet  or  a  cabbage 
or  something,  I  step  to  the  bookcase,  take  down 
a  book — and  lo,  the  quiet  room  where  I  sit  broad- 
ens at  once  to  a  great,  broad  moor — and  I  hide 
with  Davy  Balfour  and  run  away  with  Allen 
Breck,  and  catch  the  gleam  of  the  sunlight  upon 
sharp  swords — and  for  me,  the  wild  sea  breaks 
on  Scotland's  bleak  shores  and  in  my  ears  rings 
the  old  song  of  "Over  the  water  to  Charlie" — 'tis 
a  brave  song  and  one  well  worth  singing,  mark 
me  that. 

Or  if  my  fancy  turns  in  another  direction,  I  sit 
with  Lorna  Doone  on  the  edge  of  the  falling 
water  and  watch  John  Ridd  come  struggling  up 
the  waterfall,  with  something  for  me  in  his  great 
brown  hands. 

Or  perhaps,  I  take  the  road,  the  broad  high- 
way, and  go  swaggering  down  it  with  Dennis  of 
Burgundy,  just  to  laugh  aloud  at  his  old  battle 
cry:  "Courage,  my  comrade,,  the  devil  is  dead." 


ROSES  AND  RAIN       35 

Minnehaha  is  a  fine  companion  of  a  fall  evening 
by  the  light  of  a  leaping  fire.  She  tells  me  all 
about  the  painted  children  of  the  forest  and  how 
they  live  and  love  and  hope  and  pray. 

How  about  Pip  ?  Last  night  I  heard  the  guns 
at  the  fort  or  over  at  Alcatraz — I  could  not  tell 
which — and  we  looked  at  each  other  and  said: 
"Is  it  a  prisoner  escaping  from  the  island?"  And 
then  we  took  down  "Great  Expectations"  from 
the  shelf  and  read  how  the  little,  frightened  boy 
met  the  convict  stumbling  up  out  of  the  mist  on 
the  English  marshes,  and  how  he  promised  to 
bring  him  by  the  first  flash  of  dawn  a  file  to  loose 
the  tyranny  of  the  iron  on  his  limping  leg,  and  a 
pork  pie  to  stay  his  stomach. 

Oh,  that  pork  pie  and  the  things  that  went  with 
it — it  made  us  so  hungry  to  read  of  them  that  we 
made  a  raid  on  the  ice  chest  and  sat  around  the 
kitchen  table  and  talked  till  midnight  of  our 
friends  between  the  covers — all  the  gay,  humor- 
ous, pathetic,  human  people  that  Dickens,  the 
great  magician,  called  into  being. 

I  wouldn't  bring  up  a  boy  without  introducing 
him  to  Nicholas  Nickleby  and  David  Copperfield. 


36 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

That  walk  of  David's  up  to  London,  don't  your 
feet  ache  at  the  very  thought  of  it?  Little  Nell — 
poor  Joe — children's  books — yes,  and  books  for 
grown  people,  too.  What  a  sad  old  world  it  must 
have  been  before  Charles  Dickens  lived — and  un- 
derstood the  human  heart. 

If  I  had  a  boy  of  ten  or  a  girl  of  twelve,  I'd 
start  them  in  with  "Pip" — and  I'd  carry  them 
right  through  every  syllable  of  Dickens,  and  I'd 
do  it  to  give  them  human  sympathy  and  human 
understanding  and  to  make  them  get  the  zest  of 
life,  and  to  teach  them  to  listen  to  what  it  is  the 
waves  say — and  how  the  wind  talks  down  the 
chimney  on  a  winter's  night. 

And  after  that,  I'd  take  up  Stevenson.  A  boy 
isn't  really  a  boy  till  he's  read  "Treasure  Island" 
— and  then  would  come  "Lorna  Doone,"  and  then 
— but  who  could  mention  even  a  fifth  of  all  the 
wonderful  books  there  are  for  children,  these 
days? 

Fairy  stories — why  they're  a  part  of  the  sun- 
shine and  the  starlight — a  part  of  the  sighing  of 
the  wind  in  the  leaves,  a  part  of  the  dew  and  the 
freshness  of  the  morning. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 37 

What  would  you  give  to  feel  just  once  again 
the  thrill  that  shook  you  from  head  to  foot  when 
you  crept  softly  to  the  window  of  a  moonlight 
night  and  held  your  breath  while  you  looked  to 
see  if  you  couldn't  catch  the  fairies  dancing  in 
the  little  toadstool  ring — you  knew  they  danced 
there  for  there  were  the  toadstools,  as  plain  as 
plain,  and  everybody  knows  what  toadstools  mean 
— oh,  if  you  could  only  catch  the  little  fiddler  in 
his  green  coat  and  snatch  his  scarlet  cap  from  off 
his  head,  and  be  invisible  whenever  you  wanted 
to  be. 

Those  great  stones  in  the  garden — if  you  could 
only  lift  one  of  them,  you  knew  you'd  find  a  broad 
stair  leading  down  and  down. 

Children's  books — why  they  are  the  pass-word 
into  the  world  of  imagination.  What  poor,  little, 
starved  minds  they  have — the  children  who  have 
never  learned  the  secret  of  the  magic  pass-word 
into  the  world  of  books. 


38 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

MY  NEIGHBOR  HAS  GONE  AWAY. 

There's  a  wreath  of  pink  roses  on  my  neigh- 
bor's door  today. 

And  in  the  light  breeze  that  tops  the  hill  there's 
a  flutter  of  rose  colored  tulle — and  so  I  know  that 
my  neighbor  has  gone  away  and  that  I  shall  never 
see  her  again. 

I  did  not  know  her  at  all — not  to  speak  to  her. 

But  I  saw  her  going  in  and  out  of  her  pretty 
home,  and  sometimes  I  heard  her  voice  and  her 
laughter  in  her  beautiful  garden. 

We  both  looked  every  morning  out  on  the 
splendor  of  the  bay,  now  silver  like  a  gleaming 
shield  and  now  as  blue  as  a  wreath  of  violets,  and 
again  veiled  in  soft  mist  of  hyacinth  and  pearl. 

We  both  saw  the  tall  ships  sailing  proudly  out 
to  the  Gate  and  from  the  windows  of  her  house, 
as  well  as  from  mine,  we  could  watch  the  clouds 
form  on  old  Tamalpais  and  float  down  into  the 
valleys  below  like  a  calm  and  soothing  message 
from  above. 

Telegraph  Hill  was  ours  together — too — and 
the  gleaming,  flashing  light  on  Alcatraz — and  in 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


39 


the  spring  when  the  white  jasmine  stars  the  old 
wall  of  the  Carmelite  convent  on  the  corner,  the 
perfume  of  it  drifted  first  into  her  garden  and 
then  down  the  hill  to  mine. 

The  new  lights  that  shine  from  the  top  of  the 
island  of  Yerba  Buena  cast  their  reflection  over 
the  hill  alike  for  us  both,  and  when  the  sun  set  in 
the  west  from  her  garden  she  must  have  seen  the 
strange  afterglow  that  bathed  all  the  glory  of  the 
city  and  that  made  the  houses  at  the  top  of  Rus- 
sian Hill  look  like  castles  in  some  ancient  fairy 
tale. 

The  brown  and  yellow  butterflies  and  the  gay 
little  humming  birds  that  were  like  living  jewels 
winged  in  gauze  came  from  her  garden  into  mine 
and  flew  back  again  across  the  wall  in  friendly 
fashion,  and  sometimes  the  birds  drank  from  her 
bird  fountain,  and  sometimes  they  chose  to  slake 
their  thirst  in  the  little  drinking  place  we've  made 
for  them  in  our  smaller  and  more  unpretentious 
little  garden — and  the  winds  sang  in  from  the 
sea,  and  from  below  the  songs  of  the  brown  fish- 
erman rose  from  the  low  wharf,  and  all  of  us  in 


4-0  ROSES  AND  RAIN        

the  favored  neighborhood  could  listen  and  be 
glad. 

But  my  neighbor  and  I  never  leaned  across  the 
garden  wall  and  talked  of  these  things  together. 

You  see,  we  had  never  been  introduced,  and, 
of  course,  it  wouldn't  have  done — would  it  ? 

And  yet  so  often  I've  wondered  about  her — 
what  sort  of  thoughts  she  had  and  whether  she 
loved  the  world  and  the  beauty  of  it,  or  whether 
she  was  sometimes  like  some  of  the  rest  of  us,  a 
little  tired,  and  would  be  glad,  or  at  least  not 
sorry,  when  the  message  came  for  her  to  lay  down 
whatever  work  it  was  she  chose  to  do,  and  go 
away  on  a  long,  long  journey — all  alone. 

And  now  she's  gone,  and  I  can  never  ask  her, 
can  I? 

And  if  she  had  any  pain  or  suffering,  as  who 
of  us  has  not,  in  some  fashion  or  other,  I  can  not 
do  my  humble  best  to  help  her  a  little. 

I  wonder  if  she  knew  she  was  going  away,  and 
if  she  was  afraid — just  a  little. 

It  is  such  a  strange  journey  we  must  all  take 
into  the  dark,  so  mysterious,  so  unknown — does 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


any  one  of  us  face  it  with  quite  a  courageous  and 
dauntless  heart? 

Once  when  I  was  very  ill  and  they  all  thought 
I  was  not  going  to  get  well,  I  heard,  somehow, 
something  that  was  like  the  rushing  of  a  great 
river. 

Wild  and  stormy,  yet  steady  and  resistless,  it 
rose  and  swept  by  close,  ah,  close  at  hand. 

Sometimes  it  was  nearer  —  and  I  could  almost 
feel  the  fleck  of  the  foam  of  it  upon  my  face. 

Sometimes  it  was  not  so  loud,  and  then  the 
nurse  and  the  doctor  smiled  at  each  other,  and 
one  morning  I  awoke  and  I  had  not  heard  the 
river  rushing  by  all  night  —  and  I  knew  I  was  not 
going  away  —  just  yet. 

And  I  didn't  know  just  then  whether  I  was 
glad  or  sorry. 

I  wonder  if  my  neighbor  heard  the  river  go 
rushing  by,  and  if  she  knew  what  it  meant  when 
she  heard  it. 

This  morning  there  was  a  letter  in  the  mail 
from  a  prisoner  who  is  locked  up  in  a  cell  in  a 
great  and  frowning  prison. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


He  has  done  wrong  and  he  deserves  his  prison 
—  but  somehow  I'm  very  sorry  for  him,  and  I 
wish  there  was  some  way  I  could  help  to  let  him 
out  and  make  him  once  again  —  free. 

How  many  of  us  are  that,  I  wonder  —  really 
free? 

Are  we  not  all  prisoners  of  some  sort  —  priso- 
ners of  prejudice,  prisoners  of  habit,  prisoners  of 
bitterness,  prisoners  of  limitation  —  we  live  so 
close  together,  we  human  beings,  poor,  foolish, 
vain  creatures  that  we  are,  and  all  the  time  we 
are  so  far,  so  cruelly  far  apart. 

Where  is  my  beautiful  neighbor  today,  I  won- 
der —  the  woman  with  the  garden  and  the  flowers 
and  the  splendid  view? 

Do  we  look  to  her,  all  of  us,  like  prisoners  shut 
up  in  the  relentless  confinement,  not  only  of  the 
human  body,  but  of  the  human  mind,  and  does 
she  smile  to  feel  herself  at  last  —  quite  free? 

How  strange  it  all  is  —  this  little,  mixed,  mud- 
dled, confused  life  we  lead  here  in  this  mixed, 
muddled  arid  confused  world.  Will  there  come  a 
day  to  each  of  us  when  it  will  all  straighten  out 
and  be  clear  and  plain  and  easy  to  understand, 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 43 

and  will  we  be  amazed  when  we  remember  how 
blind  and  how  dumb  and  how  helpless  we  all  al- 
lowed ourselves  to  be? 

My  neighbor  has  gone  away — on  a  long,  long 
journey. 

I  wish  I  had  had  a  chance  to  say  goodbye  to 
her  across  the  garden  wall — before  she  went. 


44 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

YOUR  DAY  AND  HIS. 

Poor  Soul  and  Careless  Love  have  gone  to  live 
in  a  brand  new  house,  built  in  the  age-old  fashion 
for  their  kind. 

It's  little,  with  a  pointed  roof,  the  new  house, 
and  it  stands  high  on  a  tall  pole  in  a  quiet 
nook  in  the  garden,  and  it  has  doors  and 
windows  just  like  a  "sure-miff"  grown  up  house 
for  "sure-nuff"  grown  up  people.  And  there's  a 
little  balcony,  if  you  please,  and  a  tiny  pergola, 
and  right  above  the  little  new  house  sways  the 
eucalyptus  and  below  is  a  little  garden  of  the  old 
fashioned  verbenas  and  phlox  and  fragrant  mig- 
nonette— and  altogether  you'd  think  it  was  an 
ideal  home — but,  dear  me,  they  don't  want  an 
ideal  home  at  all — Poor  Soul  and  Careless  Love 
— they're  modern,  hopelessly  modern,  if  they  are 
just  a  pair  of  ring  doves — "cushat  dooes,"  they 
call  them  in  the  land  o'  the  leal,  across  the  water. 

There  were  four  of  then  to  begin  with — So 
Long  and  Oo  Long  were  the  other  pair,  but  they 
lived  up  to  their  name  and  flew  away,  and  far 
and  far — but  Poor  Soul  didn't  fly  away.  She 
and  her  little  mate,  Careless  Love,  were  quite 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 45 

contented  in  the  garden  and  they  crooned  and 
cooed  and  poor-oored  and  preened  and  strutted 
in  quite  the  ring-dove  fashion.  And  so  the  new 
house  was  made  for  them  and  painted  and 
trimmed  and  into  it  they  moved — as  pleased  as 
pigeons — and  by  and  by,  one  morning,  sure 
enough  there  was  an  egg,  and  the  next  day  or  so, 
another  egg.  But  Poor  Soul  didn't  pay  the  faint- 
est attention  to  them.  She  wouldn't  even  look  at 
the  nest  that  Carless  Love  had  worked  so  faith- 
fully to  help  her  to  make.  And  there  they  sit  on 
their  little  balcony  this  very  minute,  poor-ooing 
and  cooing  like  a  dozen  Irving  Berlins  in  a  brand 
new  ragtime  dove  song.  And  the  eggs  are 
broken  and  there  isn't  going  to  be  any  little  fam- 
ily in  the  dovecote — after  all. 

And  that  isn't  the  worst  of  it.  They've  set  a 
bad  example,  and  what  do  you  think?  The 
canaries  have  gone  out  on  strike  and  won't  look 
at  each  other  and  I  believe  that  Rin-tintin  would 
sue  for  divorce  this  minute  if  he  knew  just  how 
to  go  about  it.  And  it's  my  private  opinion  that 
his  mate,  Oh-By-Jingo,  has  ideas  of  her  own 


46  ROSES  AND  RAIN 


about  economic  independence  and  alimony,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it. 

Rin-tintin  is  a  widower.  His  mate  was  called 
Ninette,  and  what  a  gay  little  creature  she  was, 
but  very  domestic,  too.  She  brought  up  her  chil- 
dren in  the  finest  canary  bird  fashion,  but  when 
she  died  and  Oh-By-Jingo  came  to  take  her  place 
all  was  not  well  in  the  canary  cage. 

Rin-tintin  likes  his  bath  and  plenty  of  it  in  the 
morning. 

Oh-By-Jingo  wants  hers  at  night,  and  she 
wouldn't  mind  in  the  least  if  she  didn't  have  any 
at  all.  Rin-tintin  likes  pears ;  Oh-By-Jingo  has  a 
fancy  for  apples  and  you  can  hear  them  arguing 
about  it  the  minute  the  sun  begins  to  shine 
through  the  weeping  willow  tree  and  tinges  the 
scented  jasmine  with  scarlet  and  gold. 

Whatever  is  the  matter  in  the  little  garden? 
Is  there  no  place  in  the  world  quiet  enough  and 
remote  enough  to  keep  out  the  modern  spirit  of 
restless  discontent?  How  foolish  you  are,  Poor 
Soul,  to  let  those  eggs  get  cold.  Don't  you  know 
that  some  day  you'll  wish  there  were  some  little 
Poor  Souls  and  Careless  Loves  in  the  dovecote? 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 47 

Wouldn't  you  like  to  teach  them  to  fly,  high  and 
high,  almost  to  the  very  clouds,  and  to  come  cir- 
cling home  again  at  nightfall? 

Won't  you  ever  get  tired  of  just  yourself  and 
the  pretty  colors  on  your  breast,  and  the  graceful 
turn  of  your  own  head  ? 

Fy,  fy,  Oh-By-Jingo,  why  are  you  so  difficult 
and  hard  to  please?  Rin-tintin  is  a  very  good 
looking  fellow,  well  preserved,  too,  for  his  years. 
Don't  waste  your  time  dreaming  of  impossible 
Romeos  in  impossible  feathers  of  gold.  Make 
up  your  mind  to  your  lot.  See  how  white  the 
bells  are  hanging  from  the  datura  tree.  How 
sweet  the  air  is.  Look,  there's  the  blue  bay  be- 
yond. There's  a  good  deal  to  talk  about  besides 
the  proper  time  for  a  bath,  and  which  is  the  best 
for  the  voice — a  bit  of  apple  or  a  slice  of  pear. 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven — hark, 
how  the  clock  ticks  in  the  house  there.  See  how 
the  sun  wheels  down  the  sky.  It  will  soon  be 
over,  your  little  day,  and  his — ah,  soon — why  not 
make  the  best  of  it  while  it  lasts  ? 

The  best  of  it  in  the  old  simple  fashion  of  love 
and  home  and  children — of  memory  and  of  kindly 
friendship,  too. 


48 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  RAIN. 

"Hear  the  music  of  the  rain  on  the  roof  and 
windowpane — falling  down,  falling  down!" 

Wasn't  it  glorious  again  after  the  long,  sweet 
truce  of  sunshine  and  almost  summer  heat? 

Don  Caesar  de  Bazan  thinks  so,  and  so  does 
Lorna  Doone.  Who  are  they?  Why,  bless  you, 
the  trees  in  the  garden,  who  else  ? 

Don  Caesar  is  the  tall  eucalyptus  that  stands 
and  flourishes  his  myriad  swords  and  makes 
them  glitter  in  the  light  as  if  he  defied  all  the 
world  of  trees  to  match  him  and  them. 

Lorna  Doone,  who  should  she  be  but  the  wil- 
low, pray,  the  weeping  willow,  all  soft  curls  and 
tender  tendrils,  and  airs  and  graces,  but  some- 
thing sweet  and  gentle  about  her,  too.  And,  oh, 
how  the  yellow  acacia,  the  one  we  call  Mistress 
Peggy,  plumed  herself  and  shook  out  her  gar- 
ments, and  promised  a  cloud  of  primrose  per- 
fume in  a  day  or  so  if  these  showers  kept  up.  A 
fine  rain,  a  glorious  rain,  and  well  apportioned, 
not  sogging  along  all  through  the  day,  but  rush- 
ing in  at  nightfall  like  a  favorite  guest  sure  of  a 
rousing  welcome. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  49 

Was  it  your  good  fortune  to  be  abroad  late  on 
Saturday  afternoon  homecoming  from  down  the 
peninsula?  It  was  mine,  and  that  home-coming 
was  worth  a  roll  of  bills  or  stack  of  silver  a  foot 
high,  as  far  as  joy  and  the  zest  of  living  is  con- 
cerned. Up  the  street  of  the  Ragged  Kings — 
that's  what  they'd  call  that  eucalyptus  highway 
if  they  had  it  in  Andalusia,  where  the  names  of 
things  spring  from  the  heart  of  the  people.  They 
say  some  there  are  who  want  to  cut  down  that 
splendid  procession  of  ragged  grandeur  and 
plant  some  neat,  seemly  tree  to  be  more  conven- 
tional. Away  with  them  to  the  deepest  dungeon ! 

Up  and  up,  through  the  miles  of  violets,  with 
round-faced  girls  and  chubby  boys  standing  by 
the  highway  vending  sentiment  and  memory  and 
sweet  breath  of  old  mother  earth  at  10  cents  a 
bunch.  You  pay  $2  for  that  many  violets  in  New 
York  now  and  don't  get  them  half  so  sweet,  or 
anything  like  so  fresh.  Zim  a  zim,  up  past  the 
golf  links,  with  the  players  coming  reluctantly  in 
from  the  Lakeside  course,  the  most  beautiful 
links  in  the  world,  they  say,  who  should  know,  as 


50  ROSES  AND  RAIN 

if  they  hated  to  leave  the  breath  and  the  open 
and  the  broad  green  sweep  of  the  fields  and  the 
cuddling  close  of  the  hills  and  the  vigor  and  the 
beauty  of  it  all,  rain  or  no  rain. 

Hola  here's  the  wind,  sweeping  in  from  the 
sea.  Tie  your  veil  tight.  No  ordinary  knot  will 
do  in  this  breeze. 

Hurrah,  see  the  trees  bend  before  it. 

Zim,  whiz,  up  like  a  homecoming  eagle  to  the 
town. 

Hurrah,  the  sea !  How  the  white  horses  of  the 
surf  trample  and  rear!  Look,  the  gulls  are  fly- 
ing over  the  city,  a  sure  sign  of  a  storm,  they  say. 
There's  the  Cliff  House,  forlorn  it  is  to  see  it 
silent  and  dark  after  so  many  years  of  jovial  life. 

Hurrah,  the  great  windmills  along  the  beach, 
a  fine  night  for  them.  They  know  what  they 
were  born  for  now,  be  sure  of  that.  Turn  sails 
and  creak,  old  sinews  of  the  wooden  frame,  this  is 
your  hour  of  use  and  homely  faring.  The  park 
green  and  fair!  What  a  park  it  is,  to  be  sure, 
none  like  it  on  this  earth,  I  do  believe.  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  it  was  once  a  wind-swept  sand  dune, 
and  that  not  so  many  years  ago?  The  Panhan- 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


die  —  what  glorious  trees  —  the  town  alight  and 
agleam.  Van  Ness  avenue  —  what  a  street  of 
dignity  and  perspective. 

Some  day  when  we  plant  some  trees  along  it, 
either  side,  we'll  have  such  a  boulevard  as  all  the 
world  can  never  match.  Not  the  Marina  tonight. 
The  storm  rides  too  fast  in  the  wild  sky  and  we 
must  make  haste  home. 

Zim  a  zim,  up  the  hill. 

There's  Alcatraz,  ablaze  with  the  welcoming 
eye  of  a  devoted  friend.  Hurrah,  home,  and  the 
first  big  drops  splashing  the  pavement. 

What  a  fire  on  the  hearth,  lamb  chops  for  din- 
ner, baked  potatoes,  too,  and  a  crisp  salad  and  a 
bit  of  good  cheese  with  a  cup  of  real  coffee  for  a 
farewell  kiss.  What  a  dinner  for  a  stormy  night. 
Clear  the  cloth,  light  the  shaded  lamp,  gather 
round  the  hearth.  Now  for  an  hour  with  Bold 
Barnaby  on  the  wild  downs  of  England  —  in  the 
storm. 

Sleep,  sweet,  dear  heart,  there  in  the  folding 
dark,  where  fresh  wreaths  lie  in  memory  of  the 
Day  of  All  Souls.  Sleep,  sweet.  Our  deepest 
memories  are  with  you  in  the  storm. 


52  ROSES  AND  RAIN 


GONE— WHERE? 

The  cage  is  opened — and  the  bird  is  gone. 

And  we  are  all  a  little  lonely  at  our  house  on 
the  side  of  the  hill,  with  the  red  and  yellow  Milli- 
ner's Flower  trying  to  pretend  that  it  is  still  sum- 
mer all  along  the  edge  of  the  porch  and  the  little 
red  and  yellow  button  chrysanthemums  making 
a  gay  show  of  themselves  along  the  garden  wall. 

I  never  cared  much  for  birds  in  a  cage,  some- 
how. 

They  always  seemed  to  me  such  poor,  arti- 
ficial, lonely,  wistful  things — always  fluttering 
their  poor  useless  wings  and  trying  to  act  like 
real  birds  when  all  the  time  they  are  just  forlorn 
prisoners,  kept  for  the  vagrant  fancy  and  the 
passing  whim  of  the  one  who  hangs  up  the  cage 
and  expects  the  little  feathered  exile  from  sun- 
light and  freedom  to  say:  "Tweet" — whenever 
"tweet"  is  supposed  to  be  the  thing. 

But,  somehow,  this  little  fellow  was  different. 

I  suppose  they  are  all  "different"  to  someone, 
when  you  come  down  to  that. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  53 


Hal  was  a  present ;  he  was  given  to  us  by  some- 
one who  likes  birds  and  loves  dogs  and  is  even 
fond  of  sly,  hypocritical,  elegant  and  pharasaical 
cats. 

We  named  him  after  a  soldier  boy,  who  wrote 
to  us  from  a  hospital  in  France — such  a  cheery 
letter,  so  full  of  courage  and  hope  and  gay  good 
will  to  all  the  world.  And  little  Hal  proved 
worthy  of  his  namesake. 

He  was  a  canary,  as  yellow  as  a  golden  poppy, 
A  bright  spot  of  light  in  the  room,  and,  oh,  how 
he  could  sing,  and  how  he  did  sing. 

In  the  morning,  when  we  took  his  gay  little 
red  and  white  cage  out  and  hung  it  in  the  sun  Hal 
fairly  burst  his  throat  telling  all  the  neighbors 
that  he  was  out  on  the  porch. 

He  swung  back  and  forth  on  his  perch,  like  a 
regular  acrobat.  He  laughed,  oh,  yes,  he  did, 
and  he  said  "Hurrah  for  me/'  too, — you  could 
hear  him  just  as  plain.  That's  when  he  first 
came. 

But  after  a  while,  when  the  birds  in  the  garden 
began  to  answer  him,  Hal  didn't  quite  know  what 
to  make  of  it. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


The  robins,  yes,  there  were  a  few  of  them  once 
in  awhile,  and  the  finch  and  the  little  twittering 
sparrows  —  these  he  seemed  to  feel  were  his 
friends  and  he  answered  them  quite  merrily, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  born  good  fellow  the 
world  over. 

But  the  little  brown  bird  who  came  late  in  the 
summer  and  called  and  called,  all  day  long,  high 
and  clear  and  sweet:  "Here  I  be"  —  that  was 
something  that  Hal  didn't  exactly  know  how  to 
understand.  Every  time  little  "Here  I  Be"  spoke 
up  Hal  put  his  head  on  one  side  and  listened,  and 
sometimes  we  thought  he  tried  to  answer  back 
"Here  I  Be." 

One  morning  he  did  not  answer.  And  when 
we  went  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter  the  door 
of  the  cage  was  open  and  little  Hal  was  gone. 

We  looked  and  looked  and  finally  we  found 
him  —  high  up  in  the  weeping  willow  tree.  How 
did  he  ever  learn  to  fly,  I  wonder?  And  though 
we  coaxed  and  called  and  hung  his  cage  close  by 
him  on  the  tree,  he  would  not  listen  and  in  the 
morning  he  was  quite  gone. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


I  hope  he's  happy  somewhere,  poor  little  Hal. 
I  hope  some  of  his  bird  friends  will  show  him 
where  to  go  for  water  and  how  to  find  his  food. 
It's  selfish  to  wish  he  was  back  in  his  little  cage, 
isn't  it — with  all  the  blue  sky  and  the  bright  sun- 
shine and  the  rustling  leaves  and  the  calling 
winds  and  the  sweet  sound  of  the  sea  upon  the 

sand  for  his  ? 

*     #     # 

The  little  boy  who  lived  with  us  in  our  little 
home  is  gone,  too,  and  it  is  very  lonely  in  our 
hearts  without  him. 

How  selfish  it  is  to  wish  to  bring  him  back  and 
lock  up  the  eager  brightness  of  his  joyous  soul  in 
that  restricted  cage  we  call  the  human  body. 

Fly  on,  free  spirit.  Do  not  linger  here  to 
share  with  us  our  sorrows  and  our  grief,  our  lit- 
tle earthly  hopes  and  fears  and  anxieties  and 
disappointments. 

The  door  of  the  cage  was  opened  for  you.  And 
we  that  love  you  would  not  for  anything  call 
you  back  and  lock  you  up  in  it — again. 


56  ROSES  AND  RAIN 


GOODBYE,  SWEET  DAY. 

Grapes,  pears,  apples,  prunes,  red  leaves  and 
yellow,  vines  scarlet  and  crimson — pink  hills 
crowned  with  purple  eucalyptus,  pine  and  cedar, 
green  and  green — purple  prunes  drying  by  the 
millions  in  the  orchard  on  the  ground  under  the 
rich  trees! 

White  grapes,  amber  grapes,  black  grapes — 
apples,  red  and  yellow  and  green,  huge  ones  that 
are  like  the  pictures  you  used  to  see  in  the  seed 
catalogues. 

Tomatoes  as  red  as  the  apple  Paris  gave  to 
Helen  of  Troy — millions  of  them,  miles  of  them. 
Corn  yellowing  in  the  tassel — the  whole  air  frag- 
rant with  fruit  and  rich  with  the  perfume  of  such 
a  marvelous  plenty  as  has  never  been  seen  before, 
even  here  in  California — that's  a  Sunday  in  the 
country  almost  anywhere  right  outside  of  San 
Francisco  today. 

Nobody  would  believe  it  who  hasn't  seen  it — 
the  richness,  the  variety,  the  gorgeous  generosity 
of  it  all.  And  the  colors ;  they  are  like  something 
a  really  poetic  futurist  might  imagine  and  try  to 
put  on  canvas. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  57 


If  he  did  put  them  into  a  picture  nobody  would 
believe  him,  not  even  those  who  have  seen  the 
pink  and  purple  hills  and  the  yellow  and  scarlet 
of  the  grape  vines  that  make  the  fields  and  the 
valleys  and  the  hillsides  look  like  gigantic  pieces 
of  some  strange  and  rich  embroidery. 

Even  when  you  are  looking  at  such  a  landscape 
it's  hard  to  believe  it  is  true. 

The  full  flavor,  the  careless  plenty,  the  gor- 
geous color  laid  shade  upon  shade — it's  almost 
past  credence.  Yet  there  it  is,  for  us  of  blessed 
inheritance  to  see  and  to  smell  and  to  taste  and 
to  be  grateful  for — and  at  the  end  of  the  trip  the 
blue  bay  of  San  Francisco,  flecked  as  with  foam 
with  the  white  yachts  and  the  funny  little  cozy 
houseboats. 

And  then  sunset — with  all  the  windows  of  the 
city  aflame,  and  Alcatraz  illuminated  as  if  for  the 
feast  of  some  mighty  potentate,  every  window 
ablaze.  The  sun  crimson  and  glorious  sinking 
into  a  sea  as  blue  as  any  sapphire  ever  set  in  dia- 
monds for  the  delight  of  any  queen. 

What  a  season,  what  a  country — no  wonder 
the  boats  are  jammed  with  motor  cars,  no  wonder 


58  ROSES  AND  RAIN 


that  to  come  up  the  peninsula  these  days  at  the 
week-end  you  must  join  a  procession  and  be  one 
of  a  parade. 

The  Yerba  Buena  is  drying  in  the  autumn  sun- 
light. Was  there  ever  anything  so  sweet  on 
earth  as  the  perfume  of  it?  Melt  that  with  the 
fragrance  of  a  million  acres  of  grapes  and  count- 
less miles  of  apples  and  prunes  and  pears — and 
you  swing  a  censor  of  odorous  delight  such  as 
no  high  priest  ever  swung  before  any  altar  built 
by  man. 

Sonoma,  Napa,  Marin — any  one  of  these  coun- 
ties a  paradise  of  autumnal  harvest. 

I  saw  some  strawberries  Saturday  that  came 
from  a  little  half-acre  that  has  brought  its  owner 
just  exactly  five  hundred  dollars  in  cool  cash. 
Not  so  bad  for  a  half-acre,  is  it? 

And  he  didn't  have  to  do  the  picking,  either. 

Napa  is  giving  a  fair  this  week.  Sebastopol 
will  have  a  show  of  apples,  such  apples  as  Eve 
never  even  dreamed  of — raisins,  figs,  walnuts, 
almonds,  olives — though  the  olives  didn't  do  very 
well  this  year. 

If  you  feel  stingy  and  small  and  grudgy  and 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


envious  of  any  man  that  lives,  get  a  day  off  and 
run  up  or  down  or  over  into  any  of  the  great 
fruit  counties  and  you  will  feel  as  rich  as  Croe- 
sus —  for  at  least  a  week. 

Up  in  Sonoma  yesterday  I  saw  a  little  blue- 
eyed  girl  holding  a  cosset  lamb  in  her  arms  and 
by  her  side  ran  a  little  boy.  He  held  in  his  two 
chubby  fists  a  great  bunch  of  gorgeous  flaming 
Tokays,  the  prettiest  things  that  were  ever  grown 
on  any  bush,  tree,  shrub  or  vine  on  earth.  He 
held  them  to  the  light  and  watched  the  glowing 
colors  deepen  and  glow  —  then  with  a  sudden  little 
cry  of  childish  ecstasy  he  laid  his  sunburned 
cheek  to  the  grapes  in  an  overwhelming  impulse 
of  love  and  gratitude  and  appreciation. 

I  knew  just  how  he  felt.  I  would  have  liked  to 
gather  the  whole  perfume  and  beauty  and  gene- 
rosity of  the  California  day  into  my  arms  as  a 
mother  gathers  her  beloved  child,  and  hold  it  for 
my  own  forever. 

Goodbye,  sweet  day,  farewell,  oh,  hours  of 
golden  fruitage  and  splendid  harvest.  Now  that 
I  have  felt  the  savor  of  even  just  a  few  such 
hours  I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 


60 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

THE  GREY  VEIL 

The  other  day  it  rained,  and  rained,  and 
rained  some  more.  There  was  nothing  to  read, 
and  the  dog  wasn't  well  and  kept  shivering,  and 
the  cat  had  a  big  tail  and  shut  its  eyes  to  slits, 
and  looked  as  if  she'd  love  to  turn  into  a  tiger 
and  show  us  a  few  things. 

The  postman  didn't  bring  a  letter,  and  some- 
thing happened  to  the  cream,  and  the  coffee 
wasn't  quite  right. 

"When  would  school  ever  open?"  I  asked  the 
Middling. 

"Is  the  world  really  going  to  the  dogs?"  said 
the  Sweetest  Aunt  in  the  world.  "Hats  are  too 
dear  for  words,  and  as  for  winter  coats!" — this 
from  the  Pretty  Maid. 

It  was  a  rather  tiresome,  wet,  slushy  world,  all 
round,  and  all  at  once  there  came  to  me,  unex- 
pectedly, a  veil. 

Just  a  soft,  fine,  altogether  beautiful  grey  veil, 
the  very  kind  I'd  been  looking  for  and  never 
could  find — a  pearl  grey,  like  the  inside  of  a  shell 
before  the  pink  begins,  the  mist  grey  of  dawn, 
with  a  hint  of  the  sunrise  behind  it. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 61 

Clouds,  sweet  fragrant  mist,  the  spray  of  the 
sea,  yes,  that's  what  that  grey  meant,  and  a 
friend  had  seen  it,  and  she  thought  of  me,  and 
bought  it,  and  sent  it  for  an  "unbirthday  pres- 
ent," and  it  illumined  the  day  like  a  burst  of  sun- 
shine streaming  on  a  yellow  acacia  in  full  and 
fragrant  bloom. 

How  did  she  happen  to  do  it,  I  wonder  ? 

Did  she  notice  that  I  was  a  little  depressed  the 
other  day  when  I  met  her,  and  did  she  send  the 
veil  to  say  "never  mind,  I  like  you  anyhow,  if 
nobody  else  does  ?" 

Or  was  she  just  in  one  of  her  generous,  expen- 
sive moods  when  she  had  to  give  something  nice 
to  somebody  or  die  on  the  spot  of  a  rush  of  kind- 
ness to  the  heart  ? 

I've  seen  her  go  into  her  kitchen  and  bake  a 
dozen  pies  in  a  mood  like  that,  and  run  all  over 
the  neighborhood  giving  them  away. 

I've  seen  her  call  from  her  garden  to  a  blind 
man  who  passes  sometimes,  and  ask  him  what  he 
thought  of  the  peace  terms,  just  to  show  him  that 
she  knew  him  and  wanted  to  talk  to  him. 


62 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

Dogs?  Why,  she  can't  let  a  dog  go  by  with- 
out a  kind  word,  and  as  for  children,  every  child 
in  the  neighborhood  knows  just  how  her  cookies 
taste,  and  what  she  heard  from  Ambrose,  the  tall 
boy  who  is  up  at  Camp  Lewis,  as  cross  as  two 
sticks  because  he  isn't  going  to  France  after  all. 

Yet  he  is  almost  tickled  to  death  to  think  that 
he's  coming  back  to  the  hill  soon. 

And  if  there's  any  one  ill,  or  in  trouble,  she  al- 
ways knows  it,  my  neighbor  of  the  grey  veil,  and 
she's  there  with  a  kind  word  and  at  exactly  the 
right  time,  and  a  cup  of  cocoa  or  a  bowl  of  soup. 

When  the  three  pretty  girls  and  their  mother 
next  door  had  the  "flu"  who  nursed  them  but  the 
good  lady  of  the  grey  veil? 

And  there  they  are,  all  together  in  their  pretty 
homes,  cuddled  close  like  a  litter  of  kittens,  all 
friendly,  all  loving,  all  happy,  my  neighbor  of  the 
veil  and  her  sisters.  I  wonder  if  they  have  the 
least  idea  what  they,  and  such  as  they,  mean  to 
this  lonesome,  preoccupied,  busy  old  world  of 
ours? 

Soldiers,  why,  the  hill  is  brown  with  them, 
coming  and  going  to  the  house  of  my  neighbor 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  63 

of  the  grey  veil.  They  all  call  her  "Ma,"  and  she 
calls  them  "son,"  and  never  a  whimper  about  her 
own  boy,  so  far  away,  never  a  moan  from  her 
own  anxious  heart.  Instead: 

"When  did  you  hear  from  home?  Won't 
mother  be  proud  when  you  get  there?" 

All  the  wounded  men  know  their  way  to  the 
doorstep,  and  are  comforted  and  cossetted  and 
scolded  and  mothered.  Oh,  neighbor  of  the  grey 
veil,  I  wish  the  world  was  full  of  your  kind ! 

Maybe  we'd  all  have  gentle  sisters-in-law,  with 
big  blue  eyes  and  kind  hearts,  and  kindly  cousins, 
a  house  full  of  them,  whenever  we  wanted  them, 
and  plenty  to  eat  for  all  the  world,  and  no  hungry 
people  anywhere,  and  no  lonely  little  neglected 
children. 

But  till  that  time  comes  I'm  going  to  take  a 
lesson  from  you,  neighbor  of  the  grey  veil. 

I'm  going  to  find  my  joy  in  the  little,  homely, 
kindly,  friendly  things.  The  flowers  that  grow 
by  the  wall,  the  trees  that  are  so  kindly  with  their 
shade  and  their  fluttering  leaves,  like  hands  of 
friends  waving  to  us. 


64  ROSES  AND  RAIN 


And  the  children,  and  the  wind  that  blows,  and 
the  rain  that  falls,  and  all  that  is  good  and  natu- 
ral and  real,  and  forget  all  that  is  artificial  and 
cold  and  calculating. 

Salute,  neighbor  of  the  grey  veil,  you're  a  real 
missionary — did  you  know  it? 

(1918) 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  65 


THE  LITTLE  BOY  IN  THE  GARDEN. 
(1918) 

Such  a  dear  little  boy. 

Such  a  chubby  little  roly-poly  little,  naughty 
little,  good  little  boy. 

His  face  is  as  round  as  an  apple  and  so  are  his 
eyes — and  sometimes  the  eyes  are  full  of  dreams, 
and  sometimes  they  dance  with  mischief.  And 
he  has  a  "cowlick"  that  won't  stay  combed  and  a 
mouthful  of  white  teeth  and  red  cheeks  and 
sturdy,  broad  shoulders  and  chubby  hands. 

And  he  hates  to  wash  those  hands  and  he  can't 
for  the  life  of  him  see  why  people  make  such  a 
fuss  about  perfectly  silly  things  like  ears  and  the 
back  of  your  neck  and  just  the  tiniest  hole  in  the 
knee  of  your  stocking — not  a  bit  bigger  than  the 
palm  of  your  hand,  or,  well,  maybe  the  palm  of 
both  hands.  But  who's  ever  going  to  stop  to  no- 
tice that? 

And  he  likes  to  play  "One  Old  Cat,"  and 
"Andy  Andy  Over,"  and  he  loves  to  shoot  mar- 
bles and  he  wouldn't  carry  those  marbles  in  the 
neat  bag  that  his  mother  made  for  him  for  that 


66 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

purpose — oh,  not  for  anything.  Nobody  but 
"sissie"  and  "Mama's  pets"  carry  marbles  in  a 
bag.  And  some  day,  when  he  grows  up,  he's  go- 
ing to  be  an  aviator  and  fly  and  fly— way  over  the 
sea  and  across  the  world  to  Africa,  where  the 
black  people  live  and  where  the  camels  are  just 
swell — and  to  Asia  to  see  the  white  peacocks  and 
hear  them  cry  in  the  moonlight,  and  to  South 
America  to  find  diamonds — and  his  mother's  go- 
ing with  him.  Of  course,  he  isn't  telling  any  of 
the  kids  about  that. 

He  didn't  plan  to  take  her  at  first,  but  there 
was  something  in  her  eyes  when  he  told  her,  and 
he  just  threw  his  arms  around  her  neck  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ridiculous,  husky  whisper  that's 
louder  than  any  speaking  voice  you  ever  heard, 
and  said:  "You,  too.  You're  coming,  too, 
mother." 

And  that's  a  secret  between  them,  and  some- 
times when  the  aeroplanes  fly  very  low  over  the 
little  house  where  the  dear  little  boy  lives  with 
his  mother  she  looks  up  and  watches  them  and 
makes  big  eyes  and  looks  frightened.  And  no 
matter  what  the  little  boy  is  doing  he  runs  to  her 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  67 


side  and  manages  to  touch  her  as  he  passes  and 
his  clear  eyes  are  full  of  laughing  mischief  and 
deep,  deep  love. 

Sometimes,  on  cloudy  days,  the  little  boy  plays 
in  the  basement  and  makes  little  aeroplanes  of  his 
own  out  of  paper  and  wood — such  neat,  well 
made  little  things  they  are — so  ship-shape  and 
workmanlike — it  looks  almost  as  if  they  really 
could  fly. 

On  sunny  days  he  plays  in  the  garden  a  good 
deal  when  he's  not  out  with  "the  kids." 

It  is  a  large  garden,  full  of  old  fashioned  flow- 
ers, roses  and  phlox  and  fuchsias  and  nasturtiums 
and  jasmine  and  in  one  corner  there's  a  bed  of 
mignonette  and  pink  and  white  and  red  verbenas. 
And  there's  a  little  summer  house  in  the  corner 
of  the  garden — a  pergola,  they  call  it  these  days. 
But  it  is  a  summer  house  just  the  same,  with  a 
rough  floor  and  a  lattice  and  vines  and  a  view. 
And  sometimes  the  little  boy  plays  there  for 
hours,  climbing  the  lattice  sturdily,  leaning  out 
over  the  fence  and  watching  oh,  so  intently,  some 
ship  in  the  bay  below. 


68  ROSES  AND  RAIN 

When  he  does  that  his  mother  knows  that  he 
isn't  a  little  boy  at  all.  He's  a  sea  captain  in 
charge  of  a  great  ship,  plowing  the  mighty  deep, 
and  there  are  pirates  abroad  and  the  captain  is 
up  night  and  day  watching  for  them  with  tire- 
less vigilance. 

The  rough  haired  sheep  dog  is  with  him  many 
times.  He  never  barks  at  the  little  boy  as  he  does 
at  other  people — the  sheep  dog.  He  just  lies 
down  and  looks  at  him  affectionately  and  wags 
his  tail  and  lifts  his  ears  as  if  he  were  listening 
for  some  mysterious  call*  from  some  mysterious 
master  far  away. 

And  the  strangest  part  of  it  all  is  that  nobody 
ever  sees  the  little  boy  any  more — nobody  but  his 
mother,  for  he  is  gone  on  a  long,  long  journey, 
so  people  think. 

But  she  knows  better.  Ah,  how  well  she 
knows,  how  much  better. 

And  when  people  say  to  her,  "Isn't  it  lonely 
here  in  the  garden  without  the  little  boy?"  the  lit- 
tle boy's  mother  smiles  and  says  very  quietly: 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


"No,  not  so  lonely  as  you  would  think." 
And  the  rough  English  sheep  dog  comes  and 
lays  his  head  upon  her  knees  and  from  far  down 
in  the  garden  the  little  boy's  mother  hears  a 
sweet,  clear  voice  singing  the  gay  little  song  the 
little  boy  used  to  sing  when  other  people  could 
see  him.  And  then  people  wonder  that  she  likes 
to  be  alone  in  the  garden  sometimes  and  is  never 
lonely  there. 


70 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


ITALY  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

Francesca,  Beatrici,  Giuseppe,  Guido  and 
Garibaldi  were  all  at  the  Fiesta  in  Washington 
Park  last  night. 

So  was  grandma — and  grandpa  and  Uncle 
Batiste  and  Great-Aunt  Bianchi. 

And  the  Bacigalupis  and  the  Podestas  and  the 
Onestis  and  all  the  rest  of  the  Italians  of  San 
Francisco,  whether  they  are  rich  and  have  gone 
down  the  peninsula  and  built  themselves  magnifi- 
cent homes  with  terraces  that  make  you  think  of 
the  Borghesi  gardens  in  Rome,  or  whether  they 
are  bankers  who  prefer  to  live  in  town  in  grand 
houses  as  much  like  marble  as  possible,  or 
whether  they  are  the  plain,  every-day  Italians 
who  make  North  Beach  the  most  interesting  and 
picturesque  part  of  San  Francisco. 

If  you  have  not  been  to  the  Fiesta  in  Washing- 
ton Square  yet,  then  you  do  not  know  what  a 
fiesta  is  and  can  be. 

I  used  to  think  that  the  only  difference  between 
a  fiesta  and  a  fete,  and  a  fair  was  the  way  they 
were  spelled — spend  five  minutes  at  the  Italian 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


fiesta  tonight  and  you'll  never  linger  under  that 
delusion  again  as  long  as  you  live. 

A  fair  comes  from  England  and  it  is  a  decor- 
ous, perfectly  respectable  and  rather  dull  affair 
by  the  time  we  Americans  put  the  last  touch  of 
Yankee  expression  into  it. 

The  fiesta  is  as  Latin  as  its  name,  and  as  full 
of  fun  as  a  healthy  three-year-old  boy  with  a 
brand  new  pair  of  skates  and  a  three-months-old 
puppy  for  a  birthday  present. 

People  laugh  at  a  fiesta — they  only  smile  at 
a  fair. 

They  sing  at  a  fiesta,  too,  and  nobody  has  to 
work  like  a  slave  trying  to  make  them  do  it. 

When  you  go  to  a  fiesta  you  don't  leave  the 
children  at  home  with  the  maid — bless  you,  no, 
you  take  the  children  along  and  the  maid,  too, 
and  the  maid's  cousin  up  from  the  ranch  at 
Fresno;  and  the  Aunt  Bianca  down  from  the 
ranch  in  Sonoma,  and  there's  eating  and  drink- 
ing and  toasting  and  dancing,  and  always,  and 
always  there  is  light-hearted  calling  from  one 
booth  to  another  and  racing  from  one  place  to 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


another  and  pushing  and  shouting — never  such 
a  good-natured  crowd. 

Fishermen  from  the  wharf,  workmen  from  the 
shipyard,  belles  from  lower  Lombard  street  and 
Green  and  Vallejo.  Black-eyed  beauties  in  pur- 
ple and  lavender  after  the  immemorial  fancy  of 
their  race.  White  teeth,  quick  smiles,  supple 
wrists — how  plain  and  stiff  and  stupid  we  Ameri- 
cans do  seem  in  contrast. 

Even  the  old  Satyr  who  sits  contemplating 
himself  by  sunny  day  and  by  starry  night  at  the 
round  pool  in  the  three-cornered  park  in  Colum- 
bus avenue  was  en  fete — last  night.  Some  one 
had  put  a  wreath  of  French  marigold  around 
his  head,  and  not  one  child  went  past  him  in  all 
that  laughing  throng  who  did  not  see  and  mark, 
with  a  gay  cry  of  salutation — the  decoration. 

Lights,  music,  laughter,  friend  calling  to 
friend,  Napoli  saluting  Firenzi,  and  Milano  wav- 
ing a  gay  greeting  to  Roma,  for  was  not  this  a 
celebration  in  honor  of  the  unification  of  Italy  ? 

Italy  the  free,  Italy  the  inspired,  Italy  the 
beautiful,  Italy  the  magnificent — Italy  the  cradle 
of  the  culture  of  the  world. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 73 

THE  BIRDS'  SONG. 

We  sat  in  the  curve  of  the  porch,  as  a  child 
sits  in  the  curve  of  a  protecting  arm — a  little 
group  of  us  from  San  Francisco — the  other  day. 

The  eucalyptus  on  the  ridge  back  of  the  house 
made  a  screen  of  green  lace  between  us  and  the 
sky. 

The  hills  glowed  like  copper  in  the  flooding 
sunshine.  Old  Tamalpais  brooded  in  his  purple 
cloak,  and  down  below,  in  the  valley,  the  little  vil- 
lage lay  like  a  pearl  in  the  shell,  lambent  and  full 
of  changing  lights,  in  the  soft  radiance  of  the 
setting  sun.  Bancroft  Librtu 

Of  many  things  we  talked,  as  friends  do  when 
they  gather  for  a  little  space,  away  from  the 
every-day  concerns  of  life,  of  dreams,  and  how 
they  come  true;  of  visions,  and  how  they  fade; 
of  fortunes — told,  and  in  the  telling — and  the 
strange  freaks  of  Fate,  the  fortune  teller;  of  old 
friends  and  new  ones ;  of  old  poems ;  of  old  songs ; 
of  haunting  refrains ;  and  one  told  how  her  gar- 
den grew,  and  one  what  she  did  in  the  East  this 
summer,  now  so  lately  passed,  and  how  glad  she 
was  to  get  home  again  to  California. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


And  one  will  soon  adventure  on  strange  seas. 
I  wonder  when  she  will  return,  and  how  ? 

Old  houses  we  talked  of,  and  the  people  who 
built  them,  and  those  who  came  and  lived  in  them. 
Brides  we  discussed,  and  their  veils,  and  their 
wedding  wreaths.  Mothers-in-law  in  general, 
and  in  particular,  —  these,  too,  came  in  for  their 
share  of  attention. 

And  then  a  little  woman,  with  a  gay,  laughing 
face,  and  a  pair  of  dreaming  eyes  that  do  not 
laugh,  not  even  through  their  tears  (was  it  the 
tears  held  back  that  made  them  shine  so,  those 
soft,  mysterious  eyes?)  —  spoke. 

"Birds  are  queer  things,"  she  said.  "No,  I 
don't  mean  parrots  and  canaries,  and  things  you 
keep  in  a  cage.  I  mean  real  birds,  that  live  in 
the  real  outdoors." 

"Have  you  ever  listened  to  them,  early,  early, 
just  in  that  still,  silvery  hush  that  comes  before 
the  dawn  ?  I  heard  one  the  other  morning,  right 
outside  the  window,  and  what  do  you  think  he 
said,  just  as  plain  as  plain  could  be? 

"  'Mary'—  just  like  that. 

"  'Mary/  as  though  he  were  calling  someone. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


"It  was  startling.  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened 
to  him.  'Mary/  he  said.  'Mary/  so  lonesome 
and  sort  of  wistful. 

"My  husband  laughed,  when  I  told  him,  but 
afterward  he  heard  it  too. 

"And  in  the  evening,  just  before  sunset,  when 
the  little  wind  begins  to  blow,  he  comes  and  sits 
on  the  tree  by  the  window  and  calls. 

"  'Mary/  he  says,  'Mary/  Sometimes  it  almost 
makes  me  cry/' 

And  we  all  looked  at  her,  and  at  each  other, 
and  laughed. 

But,  when  we  were  leaving,  each  of  us  stopped 
and  said  something  very  special  to  the  woman 
with  the  gay,  little  face,  who  heard  the  bird 
call  "Mary"  in  the  silver  dawn  and  in  the  rosy 
hour  of  sunset. 

For  Mary  is  the  name  of  her  daughter,  who 
has  only  been  married  six  months  or  so,  and  has 
gone  away  to  live.  And  Mary's  mother  is  glad 
she's  married  and  glad  she's  happy.  She 
wouldn't  have  kept  her  at  home  for  anything. 
But,  when  it  is  very  still  in  the  world,  the  little 
bird  comes  and  calls  : 


ROSES  AXD  RAIN 


"Mary"  —  over  and  over  again,  in  a  puzzled, 
wistful  sort  of  way. 

Dear  Mary,  I  wonder  if  that  same  bird  will 
ever  perch  in  the  tree  outside  the  window  of  her 
new  home,  where  she  is  so  happy  with  her  de- 
voted husband,  and  when  it  does,  what  will  it 
say? 

Will  it  repeat  over  and  over,  wistfully,  the 
funny,  little  pet  name  Mary  has  always  called  her 
mother,  ever  since  she  was  old  enough  to  talk, 
and  will  Mary  laugh  to  hear  it  —  and  when  she 
laughs,  will  her  happy  eyes  be  full  of  puzzling 
tears? 

I  wonder. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN  77 


THE  MESSAGE  BY  AIR. 

(1920) 

'The  rose  is  red,  the  violet's  blue, 
Honey  is  sweet — and  so  are  you." 

Isn't  it  strange  to  think  of  them  way  up  there 
in  the  air,  the  California  posies.  It's  on  the  way 
now,  you  know,  in  one  of  the  airship  mails — a 
great  box  full  of  California  flowers.  Gone  to 
New  York  to  astonish  the  neighbors. 

I  wonder  what  the  Downtown  Association 
people  who  sent  the  box  with  their  compliments 
to  New  York  put  in  it. 

Dahlias,  I  hope.  They  don't  know  what 
dahlias  are,  really,  anywhere  in  the  East — not 
compared  to  the  great  big,  gorgeous,  raggedy, 
gay  colored  rascals  we  raise  here  in  the  back 
yards  and  think  nothing  of  it. 

You  couldn't  tell  one  of  them  from  an  imported 
chrysanthemum  to  save  your  life,  only  some  of 
the  dahlias  are  prettier.  There's  a  striped  thing 
— red  and  white,  as  big  as  a  dinner  plate,  that's 
really  too  gay  to  be  true.  I  always  feel  as  if  the 
florist  had  sat  up  all  night  painting  them  by  hand 
when  I  see  a  bunch  of  them.  And  as  for  those 
gardens  down  the  highway — talk  about  color 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 


schemes  —  they're  all  color,  gorgeous,  rich,  riot- 
ing, flaunting,  eye-filling,  heart-delighting  color, 
without  the  hint  of  a  "scheme"  about  them. 

Sweet  peas  —  I  hope  they  slipped  a  few  of  them 
in,  just  to  make  the  New  York  florists  open  their 
eyes.  Why,  our  sweet  peas  are  as  big  as  any 
two  of  such  blossoms  anywhere  else  on  earth,  and 
they  haven't  lost  a  bit  of  their  delicacy  or  per- 
fume while  they  were  growing,  either.  Roses  — 
all  kinds.  They  tell  me  we  have  a  hundred  and 
ten  different  varieties  growing  right  here  in  the 
gardens  of  California,  outdoors,  with  the  sky  and 
the  wind  and  the  fog  for  gardeners.  I  never 
could  take  time  to  count  them  myself.  I'm  always 
too  busy  being  glad  I'm  alive  when  I  get  a 
glimpse  of  a  real  garden  rose. 

They're  twelve  dollars  a  dozen  in  New  York, 
you  know  —  the  roses  we  clip  with  a  pair  of  gar- 
den scissors  and  hand  over  the  fence  to  the  new 
neighbor,  just  for  a  pleasant  "good  morning." 

Asters  —  I  wonder  if  they  didn't  slip  in  a  few 
of  the  gay,  hopeful,  joyous  things.  I  always  feel 
as  if  I  heard  someone  singing  —  something  with 
a  trill  in  it  and  a  lot  of  runs  —  high  in  a  silvery 
soprano,  whenever  I  see  a  big  bunch  of  pink  and 
blue  and  white  and  lavendar  asters. 


ROSES  AND  RAIN 79 

I  wish  we  could  send  some  September  weather 
by  aeroplane,  too,  just  these  golden  days  that  are 
ours,  right  now — every  hour  a  blessing  handed 
straight  to  us  like  a  gift  from  a  loved  and  loving 
friend.  Amber  days,  amber  and  sapphire — and, 
oh,  the  starlit  beauty  of  the  blue  and  silver  nights. 

And  just  think — we'll  have  them  now,  right 
along,  fairly  up  to  Christmas,  if  our  good  old 
climate  does  the  usual  thing  in  the  way  of  fall 
weather. 

When  they're  beginning  to  put  in  the  winter 
coal  and  stuff  up  the  double  windows  and  hunt 
out  the  winter  underwear  we'll  be  filling  up  the 
tank  and  starting  out  for  a  little  run  to  the  green 
redwoods  or  through  the  tawny  fields  of  October 
California — tawny  with  sunshine  and  purple  and 
green  and  white  with  the  ripe  grapes  and  the 
bursting  figs  and  the  drying  plums  in  the 
orchards. 

Let's  put  in  a  little  of  our  optimism,  too,  in  the 
next  box  of  California  flowers — some  of  our 
hope,  some  of  our  belief  in  humanity,  some  of 
our  eager  and  earnest  Americanism,  some  of  the 
spirit  of  the  old  pioneer  mothers — that  spirit  that 


80 ROSES  AND  RAIN 

faced  danger  unafraid  and  knew  not  what  it 
meant  to  cower  before  any  living  thing. 

Let's  tuck  in  a  little  neighborly  kindness,  too, 
and  some  open-hearted  charity  and  some  friendly 
understanding.  Oh,  of  course,  they  have  these 
things  in  New  York — that  splendid  city  of  pride- 
ful  beauty  and  imperial  luxury.  But  somehow 
they  don't  have  the  time  or  the  room  to  cultivate 
them  as  we  do  here. 

The  open  hand,  the  generous  heart,  the  loving 
sympathy  of  a  true  Californian — that  heritage 
that  is  the  very  birthright,  bred  in  the  bone  and 
born  in  the  flesh  of  every  real  California  man  and 
woman.  Let's  send  some  of  that,  too,  with  our 
love  and  good  wishes  and  many  happy  returns 
of  the  day  to  great,  rich,  powerful,  magnificent, 
careless,  ambitious,  cold-hearted  New  York. 

And  when  the  message  and  the  gift  has  gone — 
let  us  every  one  of  us  here  in  San  Francisco,  look 
out  upon  the  blue  bay  and  mark  again  with  new 
and  deep  appreciation  the  purple  splendor  of  our 
guarding  mountains,  and  lift  up  our  hearts  in  a 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  that  we,  too,  are  citizens 
of  no  mean  city — and  let's  be  thankful  that  we 
are  alive — in  California  today. 


